No, no. Start over. Pay no attention to that little devil behind the curtain.
If you do come to San Diego (or even if you're already here), and want to take a walking tour of our new/old downtown, make sure you include a stroll along the Martin Luther King Promenade.
Paved with grey blocks, shaded by green trees, ornamented with occasional benches, and edified by stone quotations from the martyr's speeches, the Martin King Promenade stretches many modern blocks next to trolley and railroad tracks, parallel to Harbor Drive. It is a lovely walk, and if you pay attention to the Reverend's thoughts, it can become a spiritually enlightening experience.
Developed in sections over the past ten years, the entire western half - from Market to K - is complete as of this year - 1996.
Well, duh! Of course it's ‘96!
You be quiet!
Anyhow... if you walk King Promenade west-northwest from 3rd & K, you will follow the footsteps my son Jude and I set down this afternoon in our stroll from the site: zone: lot: camp: cage.
When you walk there, since you read this, remember that I cut myself loose from the site/zone, and please try to forgive my not writing even one lonely word about this hour's protest speeches....
I just want to be with my boy for a while, free from the obligations of demonstrators, police, journals, media, even free from you.
THEREFORE I PUT NO LOUDSPEAKER QUOTES BEFORE YOU, no descriptions of the group called KNOAH's ARC. The only thing I gave you was the meaning of their acronym - and for that you must look to the title, above.
Perhaps these words abandon my post. But I hurt. Time for escape. I set us free.
& I broadcast to you all: this is the middle of the world. This is the middle kingdom of my week of protest zone duty. Jude and I hit the pavement, halfway through protest space-time, only a father and son in mid-day of third day.
I cast the die for an hour-long swim in my own private Rubicon, and am no more the venue host. Nor a spokesman for the City of San Diego. No more a civilian volunteer with the Police Department. Nothing but a dad and his boy becomming a man.
I have reached the center of the week, the center of the protest, the center of history, the midpoint of all time and space. It is time for a major break. I escape.
You are that exhausted, after all?
Shut up, Daimoness, I'm pontificating.
Where was I? Oh yes. If you follow our path, you will first stroll past the pencil thin towers of Harbor Club Condos. These slender brown glass skyscrapers pierce the sky directly across Harbor Drive from the Convention Center. New urban homes for the stinking rich, the towers sit on top a two-block wide mass of concrete walls, pillars and windows - the parking levels, health club, lobby & foyer. I know a couple who live there, and, ahem, they do not stink.
When you walk here, things will be different for you. You shall not see the Secret Service agents lurking every twenty meters under the towers, between the pillars, nor will you know the S.S. may not wear hats, and thus, facing south into the sun, they suffer cruelly from sunstroke of the brain.
Perhaps, however, you might imagine the conversation my son and I share as we walked slowly between trees, delegates, reporters and lookyloos.
"Dad, did you see that hick wearing nothing but overalls in the protest site? I thought at first he was part of the KAPOW act, but after hearing him for a while I decided he had to be real. No one could be that fake.""Who? Was he near the stage?"
"No - kind of halfway away - he had that huge banner - DEMONSTRATORS REPENT."
"Oh, him! Yeah, he's been here all week. With that sign that says ADAM AND EVE, NOT STEVE."
"What the hell does that mean, anyway?"
"Ummm... I guess he's saying that the first couple God put on this world were a man and woman - Adam & Eve - not a man and a man."
"Oh - not Adam and Steve. Cute. Stupid, but cute, in a warped kind of way."
When you pass this way along the King Promenade, you will most probably not be able to look ahead through the crowded walkers and say - "Look, isn't that Sam Donaldson?"
"Who?""A famous network television reporter."
"Oh yeah, I've seen him."
But you will not find him here, when you come to San Diego wearing destroyers in your hair. It shall all be over by then.
"So anyway, you thought the Rescue hick was part of KAPOW's act?""Yeah, Dad. It was just too perfect the way he heckled them. Almost right on cue - but I guess that he's really just very experienced at doing that shit."
"Mmmm."
"Like when that woman was onstage reading a poem - or something. She said how it wasn't man's place to pass judgements, that was only God's prerogative, and the hick yelled out - God Ain't No Damn Woman, Lady!"
"Heh heh."
The Secret Service is watching you.
You're a paranoid little demon on my shoulder. The agents will be gone by the time any reader gets here.
"So then this other guy yells out from the audeince that God is everywhere and everyone, you, me... and I thought the whole thing was one big act and I was the only person there who wasn't in on it, or didn't work for the media, or a cop, or....""Dude, you were just about the only real audience there. KAPOW didn't draw much of a crowd, and the media has been swarming, looking for a story."
"One of them interviewed me."
"No way!"
"Yeah. Right after one of the KAPOW guys asked me to play a part in their performance."
"What?! No wonder you thought the O.R. hick was staged."
"O.R.?"
You would have come quite a ways down the promenade by now. But if you look ahead, you shall not see the crowd of bloody fetus posters at the trolley stop.
And that's just as well, because depending on your politics, those destroyers in your hair would either drop depth charges or send up fireworks in salute.
Be quiet! I'm telling a story here!
"Operation Rescue. But tell me about the interview....""Well, I was sitting under the tree - you saw me - and a KAPOW guy had just asked me to help them and I'd said no, I'm just here to watch, man. Then, after he left me, I heard this clicking and whirring noise behind me."
"Ah, a camera."
"Yeah, a guy from... from the Palm Beach something or other."
"Palm Beach Sentinel, I think."
"Yeah? Anyhow, he asked me who I was an why I was there."
"Damn - look at that crowd up there at First Avenue. Excuse me, um... what'd you tell him?"
"That I wanted to see what was happening, and that I'd come by to see you - my dad. Hey, who the hell are those people anyway? What are those signs they're holding?"
"Operation Rescue. They're carrying giant pictures of aborted fetuses, looks like."
"Eeewwww...."
In your walk with destroyers in your hair you will not see the lines of demonstrators stretched along the foot of First Avenue. You won't be banned from approaching any closer to the Convention Center. There shall be no credential checkpoint here, when you come to San Diego. No concrete barriers across the street, no lines of officers on foot and horseback, no chain link fences, nothing will block your way. Those instruments and agents of security - filling this place today - shall all be gone when you stroll here. But... you must still watch out for trolley and traffic!
Beep-beep BLAT!
However, with all of your freedom, you will not have the circue protest to entertain you. Mister Condom will be gone. Liberal Man will be gone. The opposing groups of Life Vs. Choice, taunting each other and crying out for delegates' ears and eyes, that too shall be gone.
Tell them about Malichi and your folly.
Alright, alright, I tell.
My son and I set further foot along the walkway, passing the polished abstract slavery sculpture at the end of condo towers, drawing nigh unto First & Harbor. In front of the security gates, we cut over First, and approach a line of pro-lifers stretched across the mouth of King Promenade, before the new Children's Fountain. They are waving a wall of ruptured fetuses - giant signs with elegant photos of horror.
One sign, in particular, casts itself into my eye. "This is Malichi," big black letters say. Above the name, the huge photo shows fragments of little arms, legs, broken torso, mangled head, all put back together again - as delicately as if this were some airliner crash victim re-assembled at emergency morgue. My stomach rising into my throat, I nevertheless marvel at the artistry and technical skill behind this sign. The mangled fetus photo - all the mangled fetus photos - are nearly two feet long, and rendered with expensive, clear, color printing. Through the magic of art and technology, these tiny abortions magnify and maniputate themselves into magnificent abomination.
My son silently slips between the signs and proceeds forward into the King Promenade, here moving out over the edges of the fountain pool.
Fool that I am, I linger behind, gazing at "Malichi" - the near perfect totem of ghastly terror. Oh the art, the technical skill, the pure agony of this work....
Oh come off it. Skill? Yes. But taste? Beauty is truth and truth beauty... but what is this atrocity?
I may not agree with them, but I recognize their political skill.
Mmmmm. It strikes me these Operation Rescue zealots have the taste of blood in their mouths. They are the breeding ground for my favorite kind of human devil. Most of them are dedicated and non-violent, but among them are those few rotten apples of hatred and brutality.
All right, I give you leave to speak. What do you mean?
Do you not understand? Look upon them and their signs. Don't you feel the outrage they represent?
Yes.
Then understand that Satan's work is here, side by side with the Lord God.
That is what they are saying. It is evil to destroy the creation of life.
Yea, verily. But there is more. Here, among these zealots there are those few who go beyond the commandment that vengeance is the Lord's, not man's. Some have already firebombed abortion clinics, terrorized abortionists and their families, even committed murder. They, too, are doing the work of the evil one, not of God. It is one thing to picket abortion clinics and seek to rescue the unborn. The use of nonviolent action can be defended before the throne of Heaven. But to use terror, fire, sword, bomb and gun, and to justify it in the name of life, that is the work of demons, tempting man to take vengeance away from God. It is the same hellish "justice" preached to justify the assassination of Itzak Rabin, in the Holy City of Jerusalem, last November. It is the same philosophy promulgated by Chancellor Hitler.
The End Justifies the Means.
Amen.
But don't you like it, little devil?
I am no devil. I am only your own conscience, measuring and debating within your own mind.
Well, if you must be literal. But... nobody really WANTS an abortion, even women who choose that heartbreaking act. If only the opposing lifers and choicers could work together to improve contraception and education....
You're living in La-la-land, Danial, if you think they can agree on anything except hating each other. Wait a minute... don't!
"Excuse me... how did Malichi get his name?""What?"
"I mean, is that the name his mother chose for him?"
Smirk. Counter-smirk.
Mmmmm... your species is really GOOD at communicating, aren't you.
Shut up, I'm talking here.
Man on left leans over to help his friend bearing Malichi on her sign.
"No, sir, the people who found that baby gave it that name - Malichi."
Danial, please take my advice and Get the HELL away from here! Look, your son....
"Dad... let's go!"
From First Avenue - where there will be no more circus of abortion for your destroyers to patrol - you shall walk across the edges of the Children's Fountain, and gaze past the whirling spray, toward the little grassy knolls and green pine trees of the park. Ah - the cooling effect of spray in the wind. Makes one wish that all babies everywhere could see this lovely place. Yes, yes, reader, go ahead, murder abortion doctors and nurses, firebomb their clinics and homes, terrify all mothers everywhere, even give victims of rape and incest no choice at all save back-alley, unsanitary, illegal abortions, yea, even then shall they yet be haunted by the ghost of your sword from hell. Yea, amen, constitutional amendment, do unto all women exactly as the GOP has done unto its own moderates, make them shiver in fear and refuse to speak in open debate; it's a free country but it's not a free Party. Make the nation bow down in righteous terror before your mighty fire and gun, all so that more children can enjoy this lovely fountain and park... yes, this is a lovely place. Kill, burn, destroy so that more may enjoy it.
Just WHAT was in that milkshake you drank with your mushroom & cheese burger?
"Dad, you know there is no point in talking with them don't you?""Yeah. I know. But sometimes... sometimes I forget, and think that I can actually say or do anything that might change anything."
"Those pictures back there were kinda gross, eh?"
"Yes. Rather."
"How big are... fetuses, really?"
"Umm... a couple inches, I guess."
"Then they sure magnified them something awful. Looked like they were two feet long, even with their little legs bent."
"Uh-huh."
"Did you happen to catch what the KAPOW group said, last hour back in the protest zone, about fetuses?"
"Uh... no."
"Well, now that I think about it, I wonder if they weren't almost trying to heckle that Repent hick."
"What'd they say?"
"Ummm... stuff like... how odd it is that the same GOP radicals are against abortion but in favor of free access to assault weapons. What are they trying to do, he said, make sure that there will always be plenty of target victims to shoot at?"
"Ugh. What did he say about fetuses?"
"Well, he said he thought that all the far-right religious nuts against abortion were always carrying around big bloody pictures of dead fetuses. And that he thought pretty soon the cross, with bleeding Jesus, would be replaced by a dead fetus."
"Eeeewwwwwww."
Jude shakes his head. Frowns. "Everyone is a fucking hypocrite. That damn GOP is over there preaching moderation and diversity, but their delegates are almost all white, mostly men, and they sure don't allow a single word of debate within the convention. Everything perfectly planned and scripted, and if anyone acs the least bit out of the party line - like Governor Wilson did - he gets the rug yanked under him."
"My son is saying something nice about the governor?"
"No way. I'm just using him as a example of how the Republicans trash anyone who speaks out against the radical right. My opinion of him is still the same. He pretends to be a moderate, but I know he's a... jingoistic xenophobic asshole - if I'm using those words right?"
"Um - I've never seen his derriere, and sometimes wonder if he even has one. But the other two words - you mean like nationalistic, fear of foreigners?"
"Yep. Playing up on the whole illegal immigration thing. That stupid Prop 187."
"Wasn't it 189?"
"No, Dad," he looks at me in shock and disbelief, "it was one-eighty-seven, believe me. Don't you remember people were ditching school to go march against the damn thing? I should know the number!"
"Yeah. I guess so. But another thing about the Republicans - how about the way they are trying to hide Salamander Gingrich in the shadows. Speaker of the House, third man in line for the Presidency, and where is he?"
"Salamander? Newt? Cute, Dad, cute. But you're right. I haven't heard a word about the Contract With America. Instead, all the Republicans say is how wonderful and full of love they are. But their platform... for God's sake they don't even want babies born here to be citizens, if they're parents aren't."
A cop passes us on the walk. He smiles. I nod back.
"But, Dad, I have to tell you the other side, too. It's not just them on the right who are hypocrites; I think some of the protestors I've seen today are just as hateful and mean. I mean, people who walk around waving signs saying Hate Is Not a Family Value, and shit, sure it ain't any kind of value, but some of the left is just as bad.""People are people are people."
"Don't patronize me, Dad, with your famous quotes."
"Mis-quotes, actually."
"Whatever. But remember when we went to lunch, and there was that old guy at 5th & K with a Dole/Kemp hat on?"
"Uh, no. I don't. I was so hungry I was thinking about was getting to the restaurant. What happened?"
"While we were walking by, he was surrounded by gay and black activists, whatever, I don't know exactly what they were, but they mobbed around him, chanting Shame Shame Shame Shame! There they were just yelling at some 80-year old man who didn't know what the hell to do. Jeez, Dad, all these people preaching love and peace and Jesus and all of them are screaming at each other. It's nothing but a big pile of reverse bigotry. Everyone's got a stick to wave and they'll just keep on waving it and shouting until either they run out of breath or someone gets hit."
"Well, not everyone. Just the people with angry loud voices."
"But they're the ones who get heard!"
"Exactly."
"So many of them say they believe in Jesus or in Love, why don't they just practice what he preached? Love. No - it's all hate your neighbor and condemn your countryman but don't forget to say grace and go to church."
"Yep. The way of the world, my boy. Fight until you get yours and then kill anyone who tries to take it away from you. Judah, we all have to make that choice between serving the world or serving the holy spirit."
"There you go again, laying your religion on me. But... if what you say is true, I can understand why they killed Jesus when he was here."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. He came preaching a message of love and spiritual stuff, but no real physical war against the Romans. More of a spiritual revolution. Right?"
"Ummm... sort of."
"Now the... who were they? Zealots? Who said the Jews should fight against Rome?"
"Yeah."
"That kind of threat was easy to deal with. Lock 'em up for a while, maybe torture, or turn them into galley slaves in the Imperial ships. But Jesus... he was a different kind of threat. They had to kill him."
"Hmmmm."
"You know I'm right. In fact, I think that's why they shot Martin King, too."
The Promenade comes to an end at the meeting of Market Street and Harbor Drive. Here, when you walk it, you must part company with my son and myself, even as he and I separate today. He goes north to meet his mother at the courthouse. I swing back east and south again, to return to my hostly duty at the site: zone: lot: camp: cage.
You, there in the future, might consider going on a harbor cruise, to brush those destroyers from your hair, as you'll gaze at aircraft carriers, submarines, and guided missile cruisers.
Or, as always, the "Table" of Contents is available for your further dining pleasure. We are serving the host's indulgence medium raw tonight.